


Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory

by eternal_teapot



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 08:17:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2461256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternal_teapot/pseuds/eternal_teapot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can't help deleting some information. Unfortunately, he can't help deducing either. </p>
<p>This is one of those "Sherlock deletes John's death" fics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory

**Author's Note:**

> I'm cleaning and updating some _very_ old prompt fills from the BBC kink meme. This one was originally written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15638.html?thread=86773526#t86773526)
> 
> To my right was a copy of a Dali painting, from which I've taken the title for this fic. It's an early work, so I rely upon you to pardon the cliche.

The murderer had been unexpectedly armed (unaccountably sloppy of him to discount the possibility).

He has been subdued by Lestrade and now poses no further threat, even if his drunken shouting as he's bundled into the car is distracting. No longer remotely interesting.

The knife had severed both the internal jugular vein and the carotid; death was quick and inevitable.

Sherlock kneels on the pavement, cradling John Watson’s slowly cooling corpse, because John Watson is dead.

* * *

Sherlock scowls. “Really, Lestrade! How do you expect me to work if your idiot squad has already tramped all over and bagged the body?”

“Sherlock—”

“Honestly.” He can see the south side of Barts down the street to his right and St. Paul’s rising not far ahead of him. He is standing on the east end of Postman’s Park with Lestrade, various shades of incompetent from NSY, and a body. So there’s a case. But he is uncertain how he got here, or why Lestrade (who is marginally more competent than the rest of these morons, even if Sherlock would never tell him so) would have done anything so idiotic as call him and then cover the body. He works better with John as a sounding board. Bonus: If the source of his temporary confusion is something medical, John is well-qualified to deal with it.

Sherlock reaches a hand into his pocket to pull out his phone, and both phone and hand come away tacky. Sherlock’s coat is covered from waist to knees up in blood. The odds of coming across two bodies (and the volume of blood drying in his coat indicates that its former owner is almost certainly dead) in a morning are slim, even for him. Ergo, he has already come into contact with _this_ body.

For some reason, Lestrade is trying to conceal this from him. Backup would still improve matters, so Sherlock takes a moment to text “Postman’s Park. Come at once. S” at John before doing anything else. He has taken all of two steps toward the body bag when the familiar beep of John’s text alert chimes. From in front of him.

“Sherlock, wait—” Lestrade has planted himself in Sherlock’s path, raising his arms as if to wrap him in—God forbid—a hug, but Sherlock has a full head of steam already, twists around him, and reaches for the zipper.

* * *

He finds himself staring at Lestrade in confusion when a black sedan rolls to a stop behind the detective inspector. He should have known Mycroft would be involved in…in whatever this is. The lack of specificity unmoors him for a moment before Sherlock reverts to his habitual impatience. He straightens, raises his chin, and moves to shove his hands into his coat pockets. Missing completely, he looks down in bewilderment. The temperature is hovering below freezing, and Sherlock is not wearing his coat. His scarf, yes, but not his coat.

_Donovan_ of all people is heading toward him with a shock blanket, and Mycroft is pulling himself out of the car. “Where's my coat?” He pats his pockets. “Where is my _phone_?”

Lestrade presses him back to lean against the squad car. “We bagged your coat, Sherlock. Don’t you remember?”

“Clearly I don’t or I wouldn’t be wasting my time asking. It was evidence?”

“Sherlock, stop worrying about the damn coat. I think your brother should take you—”

“I am not going anywhere with Mycroft. I’m upright, lucid, and I feel _fine_ \--” he bats away Donovan’s hands, practically growling at her until she backs away, spasmodically clenching the blanket to her chest. “Surely if there’s anything that concerns you medically, John can take care of it.”

“Sherlock, John’s--”

“Inspector, you really oughtn’t—“ Mycroft commences his interference, knuckles white on the handle of his umbrella. And the look Lestrade shoots him really is worth saving; very few people are daring enough to glare with open venom at his brother. It must take Mycroft by surprise as well, since he halts mid-sentence, mouth opening and shutting, opening and shutting.

“Sherlock, John’s dead. You were there. You were _there._ ” Lestrade yanks the blanket from Donavan and wraps it around him. “I am...so sorry.” But that is impossible.

* * *

He is lying, shoeless, on the leather sofa in his brother’s living room. Mycroft has shed his jacket and is standing in button-down shirt and waistcoat, staring out the window, his back to Sherlock.His eyes skim aimlessly around the room, searching for the detail that will tell him what he's doing here, but no matter how he reassembles his observations, his conclusion remains an empty pause. Sherlock surreptitiously checks his elbows and finally finds what he’s looking for—the lingering red dot of a needle—in the muscles of his right shoulder. Mycroft turns around while he’s peeling back his shirt, but Sherlock doesn’t look up at him until he’s fastidiously done up all the buttons again. Even in his socks and shaking off the fuzziness of whatever he’s been dosed with, he looks more put-together than his brother.

They are in his brother’s home, not a safe house. Sherlock’s hasty check has revealed no other wounds or defensive marks on his torso; if he was attacked by someone hostile, they caught him remarkably off-guard. More likely, Mycroft had sedated him for some reason of his own. Mycroft is wearing his Terribly Concerned Face instead of his jacket—-it is the real one, not the face he gives people like John when projecting earnestness. It's the same face he wore when he came to tell Sherlock that their father was dead in his office, and Sherlock has not seen it since.

Ergo, someone is dead. There are now two people in Sherlock’s address book (two!), and one of them is standing in this room. Suddenly the absence of the other drops into that pause in his thoughts. _Of course._

* * *

 Two cups of tea sit on the table, half drunk and abandoned from this morning, when Sherlock and John raced out the door on Lestrade's heels. John has not done the washing up. John doesn't like to leave the dishes in close proximity to Sherlock's currently expanding mold cultures for any longer than necessary. Ergo, John has not been home.

It is already nearly midnight, but John hates staying up late the night before an early shift. John has been unavoidably delayed.

John hasn't texted, but thinks that responsible flatmates (particularly those prone to brushes with violent criminals) should notify one another of unexpected absences. John's delay has for some reason distracted or prevented him from using his phone.          

> To John Watson:
> 
> Location? S.
> 
> Wed Jan 25, 11:05 PM          
> 
>  
> 
> To John Watson:          
> 
> You said quite loudly that communication was important flatmate behavior after that incident with the kidneys. S.          
> 
> Wed Jan 25, 11:07 PM          
> 
>  
> 
> To John Watson:          
> 
> JOHN. S.          
> 
> Wed Jan 25, 11:10 PM

He tries to remember what happened after the case and draws a disturbing blank.          

> To Lestrade:          
> 
> Did John tell you where he was going after we left? SH          
> 
> Wed Jan 25, 11:11 PM          

 

> From Lestrade:          
> 
> Christ, Sherlock. You can't keep deleting it. On my way.          
> 
> Wed Jan 25, 11:13 PM

The look on Lestrade's face says everything. Even if it didn't, the inspector is holding an evidence bag, and it contains a familiar set of clothes and a phone Sherlock knows has "Harry Watson from Clara xxx" engraved on the back. ****

* * *

There is something wrong with the flat. Sherlock turns a full 360 degrees, absently blotting out the sight of Mycroft leaning on his umbrella by the door. His mold experiment is on the table. His violin rests by the couch. His books lean haphazardly against one another on the shelves as they always have. The hallway past the stair leads to his bedroom, which Sherlock knows is decorated sparsely with a copy of the periodic table and a likeness of Poe. Mrs. Hudson's garish wallpaper is still offensive to the eye, covered over in one spot by a yellow smiley face, which is in turn riddled with bullet holes. By the couch stand two chairs, tilted companionably across from one another. It is not a furniture arrangement that is conducive to entertaining clients. It is one for quiet evenings of reading or conversation. Picking up speed, unable to name the sense of urgency driving him, Sherlock barrels up the stairs. "Sherlock!" But Mycroft won't do anything so active as chase him up. At the top he finds a second bedroom, which stands empty. The second bedroom is a spare... The second bedroom is a spare...The second chair indicates that someone spends a great deal of time in the flat with Sherlock, but the second bedroom, the logical place for him, is empty. Mycroft does not want him to see it. This suggests that there is something about its emptiness that Sherlock needs to know. That will make him unhappy or unwell, since Mycroft is cursed with ridiculous preoccupations about Sherlock's well-being. The smiley face is riddled with bullets, but Sherlock does not own a gun. John. _John_ own _s_ a Browning and he hates it when Sherlock shoots at things just because he is bored. The gap is appalling. More importantly, why is it there, and what has Mycroft done with John's things? He flies back down the stairs only to be confronted with Mycroft's Terribly Concerned Face.

* * *

Sherlock senses that he is missing several days of memory. And has Mrs. Hudson finally gotten rid of that horrid wallpaper??


End file.
